


a cathedral of arching ribs, heaving out their broken hymns

by if_i_be_waspish



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Old[er] Eleven, River sleeps, Young River's First Time With the Doctor, Young[er] River
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 11:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/if_i_be_waspish/pseuds/if_i_be_waspish
Summary: A soft smile spreads across her face and she sits up further in the bed, tucking pillows behind her back and settling in against them, still watching him. She reaches out and touches his face, her palm soft and warm on his forehead.“Heal thyself.” She whispers quietly, her voice breathy and sweet as her fingers tickle his skin.He snorts, “I’m not that kind of Doctor.”“I know,” She cocks her head to the side, “And even if you were, the last person you’d ever heal is yourself.”He makes a non-committal sound in his throat because he knows that she is right, but even now, even after everything, penitent as he is, he still has trouble admitting that to River. That she’s right.





	a cathedral of arching ribs, heaving out their broken hymns

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't sleep the other night and I wrote this instead - it turned into young River's first time with the Doctor and, well, that's all I have to say about that.
> 
> Story title from 'Everything to Help You Sleep at Night' by Julien Baker

River doesn’t sleep much. A combination of being part Time Lord and the fact that she had to stay awake as a child for hours on end, alert and ready, makes it so that she can go weeks without sleeping and frequently does. Especially young, still too close to the days of midnight training raids and ghosts in the cold room she called home at the beginning of her first life.

She only sleeps when she’s utterly exhausted; when she’s so tired she can’t trust herself to make a kill-shot on the first try. It’s not often.

Though, of course, she sleeps more than him – more than the Doctor, who really doesn’t sleep at all unless he’s having a lark. Unless he wants to _pretend_ he’s like a silly human – which, honestly, sometimes he does because what must it feel like to be that unburdened? How must it feel to not have centuries’ worth of death and destruction in your hearts? What must it be like to only have one?

When she is young, not too terribly long after Berlin the first time, River has a wild, feral look about her and it takes _decades_ for him to convince her to sleep in his bed.

Decades to convince her that she is safe here amongst his things that will someday become her things too, though she can’t know it yet.

The first time she crawls into his bed, exhaustion weighing on her body like an anchor designed to do little but sink, his hearts constrict in his chest because he has been waiting for her to trust him – and he thinks he knows now what it must feel like for her, in her future, the first time he trusts her. Like an answer burning just outside the edge of your mind – like a need you forgot you had until it found you again and you wonder how you ever possibly went without it. Like air into tired lungs, a need so central to existence it becomes rote until it isn’t.

Because he does. He _does_ need her, despite the misgivings he had in his youth about her – despite how reluctant he may have been, it quickly became clear to him even then how much she means, what her presence in his life _is_ for him. To him.

And in his oldest days with her, he has been filled with _longing_ and a bit of fear because he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. He doesn’t want to erase anything that happened between them except maybe the first thing that ever did from his vantage point.

But not even _that_ if it meant losing everything else between them, honestly. And not just for a promise – but for him, too.

So that first night, with River tucked soundly in his bed, the covers up around her chin as she curls in on herself, the Doctor stands guard; he’s no Centurion, but he stays still for hours just watching her to make sure she is safe. He’s lied to her enough, either purposefully or by accident, sometimes by necessity – but he’s wrought enough damage in her life, and so even on the TARDIS – which he _knows_ loves River more than him – he doesn’t leave her alone, because he _can’t_ bear to be wrong about this. Not again.

Young River sleeps curled up on her side, hunching into herself, and the moment he realizes _why_ he feels a roil in the pit of his stomach – she’s protecting herself, protecting her vital organs from any attack that may befall her while she sleeps.

And while he knows this instinct fades as she moves on in her timeline, it does little to quell the emotions that swell and crest in him now at the sight of it.

She was trained this way from _god knows what_ at the hands of Kovarian and he can’t help the wave of shame mixed with a very specific type of blame that washes over him when the knowledge hits him.

This, too, is his fault. Every bad thing that ever happens to her is some part of his fault, he wears the shame of it, and the knowledge should make him leave – should make him leave to spare her, to save her from himself but he can’t.

He _loves her too much_. And it’s the most selfish thing he’s ever done. He knows it as he looks at her, soft and sleeping in his bed, wild curls fanned out around her face – she hasn’t learned to tame them yet, and in fact, she never does. He loves it like that.

He loves _her_ like that.

Still, even now River is radiant when she sleeps, her face soft and open the way it never is in her youth, even with him.

The Doctor knows in his hearts she isn’t safe – not even here, simply because she is with him, and he is nothing but danger especially to those he loves. She can never be safe with him – but she, his River, loves him anyway. It’s selfish of him, he knows, but he lets her. Can do nothing but.

After that first night, she sleeps easier in his bed, isn’t reluctant to crawl between his sheets – but he still stands guard, spends her sleeping nights reading or simply lying in bed on his side watching her.

He does that a lot – he watches her for hours and hours as she inhales and exhales, wonders what she’s dreaming.

Sometimes he knows - sometimes she whimpers and moans in her sleep, calls out for help and he knows in her dreams that help will never come. So he murmurs in her ear, coos soothing words in Gallifreyan she cannot understand yet trying to comfort in ways he’s never been particularly good at.

But he’s willing to try for her. Always. Some of the times, it works. Mostly, it doesn’t, and she thrashes around on the bed until he wakes her up or the dreams subside, whichever comes first. It depends on how long he can hold out – on how long he can bear to listen to this woman who has made armies cower in fear cry out in that same emotion.

It’s not long, usually.

He’s reluctant to make her dependent on him the way he knows he is on her in moments of startling self-clarity.

So it takes decades after she starts sleeping in his bed for her to let him hold her after she wakes from a nightmare. When she finally does, he wraps his arms around her and kisses the nape of her neck gently, her curls tickling his nose.

On those nights, they don’t sleep. They lie awake instead, wondering what it would be like if they weren’t each other’s salvation – knowing they will never find out, wouldn’t want to if they could.

Sometimes, River has dreams that make him blush - she whimpers and moans then too, but it’s different. He hasn’t touched her, young like this, though he’s wanted to; he can’t help but listen and sometimes she calls out his name – not his real one, not yet - and it’s still the sweetest sound he could hope to hear, still soothes demons inside him he’d long thought buried.

In the quiet moments of her sleep, he caresses her face – smoothing her hair back, tucking a curl behind her ear. Sometimes, he’ll place a tender kiss to her cheek, enjoying the way she smiles even in her sleep like she knows it’s him, like she knows a loving touch for the first time, like the girl she once was doesn’t hurt anymore. He lives for these moments, sometimes.

 _Sentimental idiot_ , her older self would say.

When she sleeps, he talks to her, his River. He tells her stories he can’t tell when she’s awake - things she wouldn’t understand, things she would roll her eyes at him for saying, things that might hurt her to know now – he tells her spoilers.

Mostly, though, he apologizes.

Apologies fall in quiet whispers from his lips night after night - a litany on his ancient tongue, warbling and sad, triumphant and hopeful – reverent and searching because he is so, so sorry. For everything.

River forgives him – has done since before he even met her, but it doesn’t hurt him to say it while she’s young and sleeping, the things he never had the courage to say when _he_ was young and awake, so he does.

 _“I’m sorry for how I was when I was young, River. I didn’t know - couldn’t have known - and you could never tell me.”_ He whispers.

Sometimes he asks her for the forgiveness she gave him long ago, and sometimes he just talks – tells her how sorry he is for things he said to her on top of a pyramid while all of time danced around them all at once.

It hurt him, and he hurt her – he saw the look in her eyes for the brief second she couldn’t hide the pain and it is the one thing that taught him the human meaning of regret, it is one of the many he does – perhaps that, most of all.

_“You’ve never embarrassed me, River, not for a moment.”_

It’s his penance, his confessions to her younger self. He kneels by the edge of his bed sometimes – _their bed_ – and he knows he doesn’t deserve her, doesn’t deserve the regenerations she gave up for him, doesn’t deserve the soft creases around her eyes when she looks at him when she’s older. He knows he will take them anyway, but he still remains penitent for the things he does to her in her future.

She hears him once, decades after he starts his apologies; she wakes up and hears him murmuring to her in hushed tones, a silent prayer for forgiveness, for strength, for things only she can ever give to him.

She rolls over on her stomach, stretching out as she cracks an eye open and looks at him, “What kind of kinky incantation is that?”

He lets out a choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a strangled cry because _this is his River_. He tries to smile, but it doesn’t work – stretches oddly across his face and he can tell because she sits up, turning to face him and pushing the curls out of her face, opening both eyes to look at him properly.

Even from his position on his knees by the bed, The Doctor doesn’t miss the worry that passes over her face, even this young, and _god_ he loves her for it – for so many things, really, but for this, too. For this, especially. After everything she’s been through – for all the ways she was taught not to, she cares about him.

A soft smile spreads across her face and she sits up further in the bed, tucking pillows behind her back and settling in against them, still watching him. She reaches out and touches his face, her palm soft and warm on his forehead.

“Heal thyself.” She whispers quietly, her voice breathy and sweet as her fingers tickle his skin.

He snorts, “I’m not that kind of Doctor.”

“I know,” She cocks her head to the side, “And even if you were, the last person you’d ever heal is yourself.”

He makes a non-committal sound in his throat because he knows that she is right, but even now, even after everything, penitent as he is, he still has trouble admitting that to River. That she’s right.

She looks at him, sleepy eyed and so young, so far from the person she will become and yet still her in ways brilliant and beautiful as ever, “Why do you deserve this?” She asks, and it’s an echo – a question he has heard so many times from her lips but to her, it’s the first time she’s asking it.

When he doesn’t answer, just stares at her, his eyes pleading, she smiles, but he doesn’t miss the sadness coating the edges of it. _This young_ she thinks he holds back because he wants to.

“Whatever it is - I absolve you.” She whispers, reaching a hand up and caressing his hair. When he closes his eyes and hums at the feeling of her fingernails against his scalp, she sighs, “There, I’m ready for canonization.”   
  
He can hear the smile in her voice and he returns it, “You’re no saint, River Song.” He opens his eyes to look at her, so wild and free - so River.  
  
She winks, flirty and somehow still sweet, “I always did think sin could use a patron saint.” She smiles at him, a knowing uptick to the corners of her mouth, “You like when I sin.”

“Kinda do, a bit.” He thinks back to the River of his youth and smirks.

She laughs then, full throated and almost carefree - as carefree as she ever gets, with her demons clawing at her back, “More than a bit, I think.”

He laughs now, but it’s got an edge of something dark, something sad underneath it – he reaches up and his fingers circle her wrist. He drags her hand down his face until he can place an open-mouthed tender kiss to her palm.

“Saint or not,” She whispers, her eyes dark with the desire he’s come to know so well from her older self, “I absolve you anyway.”

He presses her palm flat against his face and leans into her touch, nuzzling his cheek against her hand – she comforts him, everything about her like a healing balm to his aching hearts, always - “I’ve said things ... done things...” He speaks, resisting every urge to shut his eyes in the face of her love for him.

She smirks, her fingers tapping lightly against the side of his face before they ghost across his cheekbone, “Is that all? Funny. So have I.”

He doesn’t close his eyes, he just looks at her harder, “To you,” He clarifies, “I’ve done them to you.” He watches her carefully, and whatever reaction he was expecting, he doesn’t get it.

River still surprises him; it seems she always will. There’s something lovely and poetic about that, if he forgets how sad it is for a moment.

She quirks her brow at him, “And I haven’t? Done them to you?”

He says too much sometimes, lets his mouth get carried away, but the guilt has been eating at him for centuries – will continue to eat at him until he’s in his grave, “But after _everything_ , River - after everything it’s not...” he trails off, shaking his head.

She presses her palm firmly into his cheek and he’s reminded of every time she’s slapped him, “Not what?” She asks, “Not fair?” And how does she _know him_? She scoffs, “I’ve not heard you sound so painfully human before, Doctor.”

He does close his eyes now, just for a moment, “To you.” He opens them again, “I mean it’s not fair to you.”

River arches her brow at him again, her eyes flashing desire and sadness all at once, and he can read what she’s thinking: _fair_ was never a card dealt to River Song, and certainly was never one dealt to Melody Pond.

She leans forward, palm still firm against his face and brushes her nose against his softly. She pulls back slightly to look into his eyes, and he wonders what she sees there – hopes she sees his love for her instead of the ache of so many, many days gone by.

She licks her lips, her eyes darting down to his mouth, “So make it up to me, sweetie.”

“River, I…” He whispers, his hearts pounding in his chest, “Are you – I don’t know if you’re –”

Her hand glides down his face to toy with the edge of his bowtie, she leans forward until her mouth is nearly pressed against his, “Make it up to me, sweetie,” She repeats.

The Doctor isn’t sure if she’s ready – he’s been trying to be careful with her young like this, trying to rein in his desire for her which flows hot and heavy through his veins every time he even looks at her, but he thinks maybe it’s time he stops making decisions for River Song.

There’s a first time for everything.

He leans forward and closes the distance between their mouths, his lips gliding over hers as he threads his fingers into her hair, feels her sharp intake of breath against his mouth. She tugs on his bowtie, and he smiles against her lips – she doesn’t yet know what the tie he wears around his neck will come to mean for them. But he does: a promise – like so many things between them.

The Doctor slips his tongue into her mouth and his hearts flutter in his chest because she tastes exactly the same, and it’s like a specific taste of _home_ in a Universe where home doesn’t exist for him anymore. River tastes like Scotch, the absence of loneliness, like everything he doesn’t deserve and a bit like gun smoke.

He’s come to crave her, and he kisses her now softly, sweetly, but with a quiet desperation he wonders if she can feel.

River whimpers into his mouth – and she sounds so vulnerable, so full of light as she kisses him back, her tongue sliding over his for the first time for her. Her hands move up to his hair and she tugs gently on the strands, and he pulls back, resting his forehead against hers.

“River, I-” He licks his lips and searches for words, but River already knows him and speaks before he has the chance to find them.

“I want this, Doctor,” She is breathless from their kiss the same way he is, but she sounds so _sure_ that all he can do is nod because he wants this, too.

He wants _her;_ always has in one way or another.

The Doctor shifts himself up on to the edge of the bed and reaches for the hem of her dress, sparing a final questioning glance at her. River watches him with rapt attention, her eyes never leaving his as he hikes the skirt of the dress up her legs, exposing her strong thighs he’s come to love wrapped around his waist. She lifts her hips so he can maneuver the material farther up.

His hands falter, a bit shaky, and his younger self would be mortified to know that touching River never gets any easier for him – he never can quite believe he’s allowed to do it, that she gives him permission to touch her, to see her like this. He leans forward and presses a kiss to the tip of her nose, pulling back and watching her wrinkle it in response, just like she always does.

With trembling hands that contradict the assuredness of his eyes, he strips off her dress, peeling it over her head and tossing it to the side of the bed; his eyes rake over her body and he smirks when he finds her completely bare skin – River and underthings never did get along.

River catches him staring – River _always_ catches him staring - “Remind you of someone?” She asks, smirking, a twinkle in her eye as she spreads herself out on the bed and lets him look.

And he does, his eyes sweep over her skin, cataloguing every freckle, every bit of skin, every scar – at least the visible ones; there are fewer than when she’s older, but the one across her abdomen seems nearly fresh. He looks at it, raising his eyebrows in question.

“Someone brought a knife to a gunfight,” River laughs, the sound tinkling and bright and he hates her carelessness sometimes, but he loves her.

The Doctor just shakes his head, and then leans down to kiss the scar, his tongue darting out to run along the red flesh, sucking lightly before he pulls back, his fingers dancing lightly across the other scars on her body that he has come to know so well.

There are other scars, he knows, ones he cannot see – ones she has now that will fade over time and ones she hasn’t yet been given, some from him.

But as he looks at her now, her eyes dark and filled with a wildness just like her hair, he sees everything – everything about her and in a thousand lifetimes, he could never hope to see anything more…

Sensing his thoughts, River tilts her head, her eyes alight with curiosity as she watches him see her, “What?” She asks, caught somewhere between arousal and self-consciousness, and _oh,_ that part is new – that last bit he’s never seen from her before in moments like this; he only recognizes it because he knows her so well, “Tell me.”

And he does, “Beautiful.” He breathes out, his voice soft and sweet.

River snorts, “Oh, please.” She shakes her head, her curls scratching against the pillow, “Like you would know.”

The Doctor mirrors her and shakes his head lightly, “Normally, I don’t,” He admits quietly, “But sometimes,” He reaches out and his fingertips move gently along the soft curve of her breast, “Sometimes it’s so painfully obvious.”

Her eyes flutter closed as he touches her, his hand gently caressing along her breast until he rolls one of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Her eyes fly open and she looks at him, her back arching off the bed as she leans in to his touch.

River’s hands move to unclip his braces and she moves quickly to tug at his bowtie, eager to undress him with an urgency he should probably calm, but he doesn’t – not yet. He lets her claw at him, lets her undress the top half of him quickly, ripping his shirt open to scratch her nails roughly along his chest.

The Doctor inhales sharply at that, at the feel of her fingers against his bare skin – River touching him always sends a thrill through his body, and tonight is no different.

Her hands reach out for the button on his trousers, and he moves to calm her, but he doesn’t have to because she’s not rushing anymore. Her fingers work at the button slowly, and she glances down, not meeting his eyes.

“River?” He asks gently, and she still can’t get the button undone, still refuses to look at him. His hands cover hers and he stops her movements, “River, look at me,” He leaves one hand over both of hers where they sit at the waistband of his trousers and brings the other up to tuck under her chin. He lifts her face gently and finally her eyes meet his.

The Doctor – ready to stop at any sign of fear or discomfort – sees only desire reflected to him, her pupils blown wide, but he sees a question in her eyes too. He tilts his head to the side in curiosity and River licks her lips.

“Teach me.” She rasps, “Teach me how to touch you.”

The Doctor moves her hands away from his waistband gently and unbuttons his trousers, never taking his eyes from River’s. He undoes the fly and then waits. River’s eyes dart down and then back up to meet his again, her heady gaze locked on his once more.

Tentatively, but still without fear, River reaches her hand into the waistband of his trousers, and her small warm hand closes around his hard length. He resists the urge to let his eyes flutter closed at her soft touch, but his nostrils flare and he holds her gaze as her hand grips him, moving slowly from his base to his tip and then back down again.

“Just – that you want to,” The Doctor licks his lips, “That you _are,_ River,” His breath catches as she squeezes him lightly, “That’s how I like to be touched by you.”

And it’s true – he’d never particularly cared for hands on his body until he met River Song; she touches him, and he melts, forgets how to speak, forgets the name of every planet he’s ever visited except whichever one he’s on with her where she’s touching him. Knows only her name, knows only the feel of her palms against his skin.

The Doctor reaches out and brings a hand between her thighs – a finger gently swirls in her opening and he’s never been so relieved to find her slick and wanting. She always is for him – that’s what she tells him - but this her has never had him before, so he couldn’t be sure without feeling for himself.

And, _oh_ , can he feel for himself.

He slides a long finger inside of her and watches as her eyes finally flutter closed and she falls back down on the bed, her hand still wrapped around him, still working up and down his length.

For his part, the Doctor knows how to touch her gentle, how to touch her rough, how to touch her so tenderly she cries, how to touch her so expertly that she forgets everything but his hand on her body, but tonight he settles for somewhere in the middle, some well-crafted combination of all four.

He slides his finger all the way into her wet heat to the last knuckle and then pulls out, pushing it back in and adding another finger, watching as her nostrils flare and her lips part.

Her knees fall open and she sighs, her free hand moving up above her head as she arcs her hips to meet the rhythm he is setting with his fingers.

This is it, he knows – this is River opening herself to him for the first time as far as she’s concerned, and he wants to take it slow. He wants to take _her_ slow.

When his thumb ghosts over her clit, her hand stills – she still grasps him, but it’s loose, and he was right before – just _that_ she touches him is enough, especially when he’s touching her. Because he is still painfully hard in her hand and she is barely even touching him now.

The Doctor draws his fingers out of her slowly before pushing them back in again, all the way, his eyes only leaving her face to watch his fingers slide slowly into her. After a few long moments where only River’s breathless moans fill the air, River opens her eyes and looks at him.

“Sweetie,” She speaks the word on a moan and it leaves little question what she’s asking.

With a nod of his head and two final pumps of his fingers inside of her, he withdraws them. He brings them up to his mouth and licks her taste from his fingers, sucking them into his mouth to clean them. River watches him, her breath coming in soft pants as her eyes lock on his mouth.

The Doctor smirks around his fingers before he pulls them out, licking his lips and making a soft sound of satisfaction. He’s always loved tasting River.

He slides off the bed and steps back and momentarily mourns the loss of River’s hand around his length – he quickly shoves his trousers down and stands by the side of the bed, watching as River’s eyes skirt over him.

She _loves_ this body on him, and it loves her right back; he is pleased to see a hint of a smile cross her face as she takes him in for the first time, her eyes traveling the planes of his body until they land between his legs. She smirks then, and spreads her legs wider, a clear unabashed invitation – so very, very River.

He chuckles and shakes his head fondly before he crawls on the bed and settles between her thighs. He leans down over her body to kiss her and he’s not surprised to feel the drag of her teeth along his bottom lip, rough and ragged – he pulls back and changes the kiss, slow and gentle this time.

The Doctor can feel the confusion and hesitancy in River’s kiss, but she lets him lead – and he knows it isn’t easy for her, has never been easy for her, and it makes him hum against her mouth because this is her trusting him and it tastes so, so sweet.

He kisses his way down her jaw, down the column of her throat where he pauses to suck lightly at her collarbone, smiling against her skin when she cries out and her hands fly into his hair to hold him against her. He nips at her skin before moving down, his tongue trailing a path between the valley of her breasts; his teeth graze the underside of a breast before his mouth moves up to close over a nipple and she cries out in pleasure, her hands tight in his hair.

“Inside,” She gasps, “Doctor, please.”

He’s not in the business of denying River Song what she wants – he’s spent enough time doing that, enough time pretending he didn’t want the exact same thing she did.

So he bites at her nipple before he moves and positions himself at her entrance, his hand circling his base as he shuffles forward on the bed until he’s close enough to feel the heat emanating from her.

The Doctor looks at her, his eyes searching, asking a silent question that he already knows the answer to, but he needs her to confirm it, needs to be clear because this is an important moment for both of them and he’s damaged enough of those between them already. She does confirm it, drawing her lip in between her teeth and nodding her head.

He pushes into her slowly – _so slowly_ – and his eyes never leave her face. Her eyes widen as he slips into her and she bites her bottom lip again, hard - then suddenly, he’s buried all the way in River Song for the first time for her, and he sees the moment the pleasure hits her full force.

River gasps as he stills inside her before slowly sliding out and pushing back in – he does it again, and again, and he expects her to try to change the pace, to speed them up, but she doesn’t. Her hips just tilt up to meet his in a slow, sensuous rhythm.

He pulls all the way out and then slides back in, drawing a low moan from the back of her throat and _thank god_ he’s done this before, because with River Song making noises like that, low and deep and the absolute sexiest sound in every conceivable universe, he wouldn’t be able to last long unprepared.

River’s eyes are half closed and a small smile plays on her lips as she rocks with the slow gentle pace he sets with her. When he’s buried in her again, his pleasure licking at his spine, he whispers her name.

“River,” The word tastes familiar on his tongue, sounds like every good thing about himself.

Her eyes flutter open and she looks at him, “Doctor,” She whispers back, and he sees the exact moment she learns this thing about herself, her eyes wide and shining – the knowledge that wraps itself around her and makes her reach her hand out for him.

He takes it, leaning down and drawing their joined hands above her head, his mouth dropping down to work sweetly against her neck, his tongue darting out to taste her as he whispers promises in another language against her neck – no apologies, not right now.

The Doctor keeps his rhythm slow and steady, ignores every urge he has to speed up, to barrel towards his own release because _this isn’t about him_. So he draws himself out and then slides back in, watching as River writhes in a new kind of ecstasy beneath him.

He brings their joined hands to his face, presses her palm against his cheek, and then turns to kiss it, his lips grazing over the flesh of her palm. River caresses his cheek softly before her thumb runs across his lips once, twice, three times before she pushes it gently inside his mouth.

The Doctor’s tongue follows her thumb, his lips close around it and he sucks on it gently as he drops his free hand between them, finding her clit and circling it with two fingers – pressing gently as she gasps loudly and her thumb presses fully into his mouth.

Usually, he would chuckle or smirk, pleased that he can elicit this response from her, but she’s looking at him so wide open that all he can do is stare back at her with the same openness, all he can do is murmur _thank you_ around her thumb as he works her clit with his fingers.

River fights against the wave of pleasure threatening to overtake her, but the Doctor does not stop. He just murmurs sweet words of encouragement, his tongue swirling around her tongue still in his mouth.

He can’t use his pet name for her yet – _wife_ – so he just whispers her name over and over again before he speaks gently to her, “Let go for me, River – I’ve got you,” He speaks still around her thumb, “I’ve always got you,” His eyes bore into hers, pleading and soft and he sees the fear in her eyes because _this_ is _new_ ; the fear flashes only for a split second before she lets it go.

His brave girl – _his_.

The minute the fear leaves her eyes, his fingers press hard against her clit and she cries out in ecstasy, his name falling from her lips in a ragged cry and she arches off the bed, letting the wave of pleasure finally take her with it.

River’s head tilts back and he sucks on her thumb, his fingers still circling against her slower this time, drawing her pleasure out as he continues to thrust gently inside her. She clenches around him and her moans become slower and more languid, and the Doctor feels his own pleasure building within him.

When River’s eyes finally flutter open, he stops the movement of his fingers and she draws her thumb from his mouth, swiping it along his lips before she lifts her hips up to meet his again, keeping his rhythm, slow and sensual.

It’s the trust in her eyes – the sense of wonder as she watches him that finally breaks him, sends him over the edge and he comes with a cry of her sweet name, the only one he will ever say in moments like these.

The Doctor drops his head to the crook of her neck, licking at the sweat there, panting quietly into the hollow of her throat as her fingers trace up his spine, her fingernails lightly dragging along his skin.

After a long moment during which the only sound is their ragged contented breathing, the Doctor shudders, drops a final soft kiss to her neck, and then slides out of her, rolling to the side of her on the bed.

He takes River’s hand in his own, interlacing their fingers before he brings her hand to his lips and kisses the back of her hand, his eyes watching her face as she stares at the ceiling.

She doesn’t speak, her chest rising and falling, but he can see the tears glistening in her eyes and he props himself up to get a better look at her, his hearts seizing in his chest.

“River?” He tries to keep the panic out of his voice, but he fails miserably.

River smiles at the ceiling, “I didn’t know it could be like that.” She whispers, and then she lolls her head to the side to look at him, tears still shining in her eyes but she is smiling, “I didn’t know I could like it like that.” At his questioning glance, she turns her body to face him and brings the hand that is not intertwined with his to his forehead. She smoothes his hair back and smiles, “Gentle,” She explains, quietly, “Sweet.”

The Doctor smiles, the panic leaving his body at once and giving way to a different emotion – love. And all of it for her – every single part of him alight with it as he looks at her. Her eyes are still wet and anyone but him would miss the slight tremble of her bottom lip.

He leans forward and kisses her softly on the lips before he pulls back and looks at her.

“You deserve it,” He whispers, “You’re worthy of it, you know.”

It’s not a word she’s heard often yet, he knows – _worthy_ – and he sees her nearly flinch at it, nearly recoil from it as she drops her hand from his hair, but he won’t let her retreat from this, from this truth about her that she deserves to know, to understand. He drops his head to chase her eyes, makes her look at him.

She swallows, “Of what?”

The Doctor reaches out and trails the back of his index finger along her cheekbone, a soft smile on his face as he looks at her, “Tenderness.”

River doesn’t say anything, just looks at him for a long moment before she lets go of his hand and slides closer to him on the bed, pressing her body up against his. Her hand comes to rest on his chest and her head makes a pillow of his bony shoulder, and it’s her first time in her favorite spot.

He’d asked about it once:  
_That can’t be comfortable, River, this body is all bone_.  
She’d made a dirty joke and then snuggled deeper into his shoulder.  
_I never had a pillow that made me feel safe until your shoulder, sweetie_ , she’d murmured before falling asleep, leaving him stunned. As River Song is apt to do.

Now, he turns his head and presses a kiss to the crown of her head, smiling in her hair when she lets out a little sigh of contentment, her fingers drumming on his chest.

River’s eyes close and her breathing evens out, her fingers stilling on his chest as sleep takes her.

The Doctor lies there quietly for a moment, feeling the warmth of her body against his, the scent of her flooding his nostrils and it takes him a moment to realize but when he does, he feels ridiculous tears burning at the back of his eyes.

River Song’s vital organs are pressed against _him_ right now – she is trusting him to protect her and he will, he swears he will, until he can’t anymore.

When that day comes, he knows, she will absolve him of that too – but until then, he will spend his life giving penance to her. And _tenderness_ , until all her ghosts are gone.

 

 


End file.
